Then From My Lips Came a Voice Came, a Name
by darthsydious
Summary: Molly is kidnapped and Sherlock is frantic. One might say mad with grief. Did they both hallucinate, or was it a miracle? Either way, Sherlock doesn't care. Absolutely inspired by that famous scene from Jane Eyre. Also The Princess Bride.


" _Molly! Molly!"_

Molly Hooper blinked her eyes, licking her dried lips. Slowly, she lifted her head, craning to hear. She had _thought_ she heard someone…but of course it couldn't be. It was impossible. Who would be in this forgotten corner of England? Who knew she'd been taken here? Did anyone even care? Three days she'd been in the miserable, ramshackle cabin. Some former henchman of Moriarty's, no doubt, thinking they were getting back at the illustrious Sherlock Holmes by kidnapping the pathologist who helped fake his death. To be fair, she had been instrumental during the Reichenbach case, but that was all over and done with now. No matter what stolen moments in stairways or train platforms had happened between them. There were more important people for Sherlock to-

" _Molly!"_

Straining against the ropes that bound her, she leaned forward. It was madness! It could have only been the wind, but she couldn't' help herself. That voice belonged to only one man. Hunger and thirst must have been driving her mad, but she called out:

"Sherlock! Here I am!"

The wind howled against the house, and the voice she had sworn she heard went away with it. She waited, breathless and shivering. After a long moment, she sat back, feeling foolish. Still, she felt her skin prickle with goosebumps. She had heard someone…she was sure of it. Confusion and exhaustion blurred together, she felt her head nod and she gave way to sleep.

* * *

"Molly! Molly Hooper!"

At the sound of her name, Molly raised her head again. This time, she was certain it was not the wind!

"Here!" She cried, finding her voice was hoarse. "I'm here!"

The door of the cabin had been bolted, which proved to be no match for Watson's revolver. As soon as the lock was broken away, Sherlock shoved the doctor out of the way, rushing inside the cabin, he only had eyes for the diminutive woman tied to the chair by the hearth. Watson was close behind, moving behind Molly to help unbind her.

As soon as she felt the ropes fall away, she lifted her hands. Weakly, she reached forward, not caring who was there to see. Pale fingers covered Sherlock's cheeks, as if to be certain he was truly there. Suddenly remembering herself, she lowered her hands, but her eyes did not lose their wonderment as she regarded him.

"You're here…" she murmured. "You came for me."

"Yes of course I did," he replied with a frown.

Once she was untied, Sherlock helped her to her feet. "Watson, go and fetch the carriage, she cannot walk as far as that, and fetch the blankets from under the seats as well. See if my brother was good enough to stock up any provisions as well, there must be _something_ in that eyesore of a rig."

Watson dug through his pockets. "Here, I've got a chocolate cream bar," he said. "Mary always puts one in my jacket pockets when she knows I'm on a case," he gave it to Molly. "That should keep you until we can get you something substantial." He jogged off then, waving his arms to get the driver's attention.

Sherlock and Molly stepped outside of the cabin, waiting. Molly blinked, despite the overcast sky, it was still far brighter than she was used to, having been in a boarded up shack for three days.

"How- how did you find me?" Molly asked, struggling to open the candy bar. Sherlock took it from her, cracking it in half and ripped the foil, handing her both pieces.

The consulting detective, as if suddenly remembering himself, that neither were in any sort of formal relationship, stepped away from her, realizing he was hovering. For a moment, there was nothing but the wind roaring around them, rattling the creaking timbers, in the distance was the sound of the driver's shouts to the horses.

"I thought-" he began, then lost his words. "I did not know at first what had happened, that you were taken," he admitted. "I thought you'd gone away, to be married."

She gave a short laugh, shaking her head. "To who?"

"I don't know! You could have anyone, Molly Hooper!"

"Oh yes," her smile was bitter then, clearly disbelieving.

"Anyway, you wouldn't believe me if I told you." The wind nearly carried his words away, but she heard them, and she looked at him.

Heart racing, she took a step closer, but he remained where he was more than an arms-length from her. "Tell me."

"Once we found you had been taken, I looked everywhere, I tried every lead that came, and nothing made sense. Three days, I looked for you. Lestrade was ready to give you up for lost, and I worried he was right." He shook his head. "Three days I despaired of ever finding you, Watson would say I was positively disgusting, shouting at the sky like a romantic fool, as if the heavens would give you up from your hiding place," he felt foolish, admitting it aloud, especially to her. "I cried for you, called aloud as if would answer me…and I was ready to give up but then, the strangest thing-" the frustration in his eyes gave way to wonder and confusion. "I thought I heard a voice,"

Chills ran up Molly's spine, equally curious as Sherlock.

"I know who's voice it was," he insisted. "And the voice replied-" he blinked, shaking his head. "I was not suffering under the influence, Watson believes I was, but believe me, perhaps it was only that I willed it… _but I would swear that I heard you answer me_." His gaze was piercing.

Molly didn't know what to say for a moment. Her mouth hung open, the taste of a bit of chocolate melting on her tongue. It couldn't have been, it was impossible! And yet hadn't she been certain the previous night that she had heard him calling for her?

"I did answer you," she found her voice at last, feeble as it was.

Sherlock closed the distance between them.

"It is scientifically impossible," he murmured.

"I find I don't truly care…do you?" she asked.

He studied her for a moment, windswept, pale and gaunt. Three days he had been in a state of near hysteria, moving heaven and hell to find her. He had felt hope at last the previous night, when he had sworn he heard her answer him, that she was still alive, that she was waiting for him. That hope had not faded, and now here she was, only inches away, and he did not care if it was never explained to him. Perhaps it was a miracle of God.

"No I don't," he said at last.

"Holmes, what are you bloody standing around for? She's severely dehydrated and half-starved, I'd like to examine her properly as well!" John Watson barking from the carriage startled them both.

Molly, feeling at last her strength waning, leaned against Sherlock, who, without another thought, lifted her into his arms. Her head resting against his shoulder, she peered up at him, smiling weakly.

"I will never doubt again."

He returned her gaze, lowering his mouth to hers. "There will never be a need."


End file.
